


After Midnight

by cabinetcaligari



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus is underage, M/M, Masturbation, POV First Person, POV switch, Somnophilia, unrequited pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 08:08:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9810737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cabinetcaligari/pseuds/cabinetcaligari
Summary: I want him. And with the night, my secret is safe. It surrounds us with silence and darkness, and gently hides my desires from the world.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Dear _melodic_, all your prompts were so very tempting, but I immediately fell in love with this one. I’m so happy to share a fandom with you ~~and your kinky mind~~ , and I hope you like my take on your delightful prompt.
> 
> Shiftylinguini, thank you so much for lending me your brain and brainstorming this over with me. As always, your ideas and suggestions are invaluable, and your enthusiasm is so contagious <3\. Gracerene, thank you so much for your thorough and ever so speedy beta-work, and for helping me whipping this story into shape <3\. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowling and associates. No copyright infringement intended.

I'm watching him.

He's deeply asleep. His breaths are deep and slow, chest moving in time. The moon shines through the gap in between the curtains. It draws a silver line on the window sill, the rug on the floor, running over the linen on the bed. It illuminates his chest, the pale skin, the almost invisible freckles covering his body. The untrained eye wouldn't see them, but I know they're there. I've stared at them for hours, tried to map them so many times. I remember every constellation, my breath ghosting over his skin as I tried to tell them apart in the dark. 

He always sleeps like the dead, drops off as soon as his head hits the pillow. I'm lying next to him, my breathing shallow and quick - much faster than his gentle exhalations. For a while I lay on my back, trying to suppress the urge to turn to him, trying to fall asleep instead. Eventually I give in, rolling on my side as quietly as possible. The covers rustle and I anxiously hold my breath, my heartbeat so fast I’m afraid he'll be able to hear its pounding. But his breathing stays calm and deep. I exhale silently, every sound too much in the quiet of the night.

Outside, the wind rustles through the trees. The branches sway and draw warped shadows on the bed. He is lying on his stomach, the blanket covering half his back. I reach out to him, my fingertips hovering just above the skin that covers the sharp lines of his shoulder blades. He’s slender and lean, always has been. Perfect for a Seeker, the best one his House has got in a long time. They can’t get enough of seeing him fly, boys jealous of his talent, girls giggling whenever he soars past them. I ignore it, clapping my friends on the back just a little too hard whenever he’s caught the Snitch again. At Hogwarts, he’s a popular student, the celebrated Seeker of his House. We don’t even share the dorm there. But when we’re home for the holidays, we once again sleep in our old bedroom. He never wanted to sleep alone, and I could never refuse him. I still can’t. 

The walls of our room are covered with old Quidditch posters, and the bed is a little too short. The night is silent, and I’m watching him. Because when we’re lying in our bed, he’s mine to enjoy. Only mine.

***

It’s dark outside. Clouds cover the moon, and the fields are endless and empty, a sea of black surrounding the house. The curtains are half opened, letting in just enough light to distinguish the distorted shapes of furniture in the room.

I’m watching him. He’s lying on his side, facing away from me. The blanket is clutched in his fists. I drink in the lines of his body, while his chest moves slowly in deep sleep.

His hair is fanned over the pillow. I reach out, touch one of the strands. It feels soft under my finger. I have stroked it countless times, reaching out to him during one or another sleepless night. Sometimes he suddenly moves, and it always makes my heart jump in panic. I don’t dare to move when that happens, afraid I really woke him up this time. But then he mumbles something incomprehensible, clutching the blanket even tighter, and his breathing slowly evens out again.

Tonight however, he doesn’t stir. He's been still for a while now, and I carefully lift a strand of his hair, letting it glide through my fingers. He has the habit of combing his fingers through his hair, making it stand up this way and that. He does it without thinking, and it makes my own fingers itch. We’re not nearly as touchy as we used to be, when we were little. For me, with my want came the shame, and the avoidance to touch him. For him – I don’t know. He must’ve noticed my growing hesitation to hug him back, to jump him and muss his hair, to casually lean against him as I read a book. I saw it took him aback, the confusion clear on his face. It made me want to hug him and tell him it would be alright. But I didn’t. It was not going to be alright again.

I don’t ruffle his hair anymore. Nowadays, I just watch his fingers comb through his hair, my fists clenching in my pockets. Tonight, I remind myself. Tonight, when he’s asleep, I can have what daytime doesn’t give me. I still don’t touch him. But I can watch him. 

Sleep makes his face soft, his expression blissfully calm. The daylight is harsh and unforgiving, making me feel guilty and ashamed whenever I see him. But with the night, my secret is safe. It surrounds us with silence and darkness, and gently hides my desires from the world.

***

I’m watching him.

Despite the nightfall, the room is still warm after the hot sunny day. The windows are open wide. The air smells like summer, like the warm breeze rolling over the fields and bringing with it the promise of outside days and sultry nights. The few trees surrounding the house are black silhouettes in the moonlight, their branches twisting upwards like arms towards the sky.

He’s lying on top of the sheets, wearing only a thin pair of pants. He still has the body of a boy, but a sparse trail of hair is running down from his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his pants. Despite the summer, his skin is ever so pale. It makes his red lips stand out even more so, mouth slightly parted as he’s deeply asleep. Carefully I bend over, until my mouth is just above his skin.

He smells like summer, too. The messy backyard seamlessly gives way to the never-ending fields beyond, the green speckled with poppies and cornflowers. We play Quidditch there until the smell of grass and flowers has nestled itself in his every pore, mingled with the salty sheen of sweat. I’ve never tasted it, but I've imagined it a thousand times. When he gets up in the morning, the smell will linger on his pillow long after he is gone.

I’ve wanted him for so long now. And most of all when he’s asleep, and it’s safe to want him. When he’s soft around the edges, sleep shrouding his consciousness. His dreams are taking him to far off places, and he’s unaware of my breath on his skin. The night heightens my senses until the air is thrumming with his heartbeat, or maybe with mine. His soft breathing fills my ears and swirls around me, until the world outside our room fades and this is all there is.

I long for these moments. They’re like soap bubbles, just out of reach, disintegrating in my hands if I try to capture them and making me wonder afterwards if they were even real. 

Suddenly he moves. Long fingers stretch out, softly touching my wrist. I stiffen, my heart beating in my throat. Is he awake? His eyes are still closed, but his fingertips are on the pulse point just under my thumb, and I wonder if he feels it thrumming. His touch feels like electricity on my skin, sending waves of want through my body until I’m drowning in it.

Finally, he stirs and rolls over to his side, his hands now firmly grabbing his pillow. Slowly I roll away from him, my inhalations superficial with pent-up need. I let my hand glide down, knowing I won’t be able to wait until my morning shower. It's quick and the warmth of the afterglow is almost immediately replaced with shame, washing over me like a cold shower as realisation sinks in. 

For a while I lie in the dark. I listen carefully but he stays silent, his breathing even and deep. Outside, the moonlight has faded, giving way to the pale grey of dawn.

***

Night has fallen.

We’re lying in bed. I am awake; he is softly snoring next to me. The curtains are open, revealing a clear night sky with a myriad of stars. I’ve been looking at them, trying to find constellations matching the freckles on his skin. So far, I've found an intricate pattern of stars matching the freckles under his shoulder blade, and a match with a few on his nose. Normally I can find more, but tonight I’m distracted by a leg thrown over mine.

Since the hand on my wrist, he has touched me several more times in his sleep. It makes me wonder, but it’s hard to think when he curls up against me, his feet tangling around mine. His hands have come to rest over mine, nails scratching softly over my palms. Sometimes he lies so close to me I can feel the warmth of his breath. I lie in the dark until his touch burns a hole in my skin, and I can no longer suppress my want. Rolling over so that he’s not touching me anymore, I reach down, the front of my pants already sticky. Careful not to make a sound, I focus on his breathing filling the room. It always stays deep and even, while mine becomes increasingly shallow, until I finally have to bite back the moans bubbling up in my throat.

Afterwards I will lie on my back, telling myself I should stop this. I should roll away immediately, not allowing his touch to slowly but surely set me on fire. I shouldn't listen to the night, and how inviting and forgiving she feels.

I sigh. I know all of this, and yet.

Careful not to wake him up, I shake off his leg and roll over. Trying to suppress the guilt, and focusing on the want uncoiling in my stomach instead, I reach down. Above the fields, clouds are slowly filling the night sky, hiding the stars from view.

***

It storms outside.

Rain hammers on the roof and the windows. The branches of the trees bend and moan, battered by the heavy wind. Their twisted shadows fall through the window and dance on the walls and on the ceiling of the bedroom, disappearing shortly whenever the lightning comes down. The following crack of thunder makes the window panes rattle in their grooves.

He is curled up at my left, sleeping like the dead. During the night, he took over more than half of the bed, forcing me to the edge. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. Every time the lightning cuts through the dark, I slowly count until I hear the thunder rolling over the fields. It is coming closer, and I wonder if it will find us.

Another wave of lightning briefly erases the dark, and in the following clap of thunder, I feel him stir. He mumbles and stretches out his hand, letting it rest just on top of my heart.

I hold my breath, unable to hear his breathing over the storm outside. Is he asleep? He doesn’t stir any further, his fingers curled slightly on my chest. I feel my heart beating wildly under it. It reverberates in my body and echoes in my ears, loud like the rain pelting against the windows.

For a while we lie still, his touch running hotly through my body until I’m thrumming with it. Will he notice? The wind howls around the house, drowning out the sound of my quickened breathing. 

Slowly I reach down. The shame of what I’m going to do burns. Fear of getting caught heightens my senses even further, until every nerve is on edge, centred on his hand over my heart. When I finally start to move my hand, it feels so good I can barely suppress a moan. My toes curl as I increase the pace, trying to keep my body quiet under his hand. I’m watching him, his long lashes touching his cheeks. His body is slim and pale, and his pyjama pants reveal a small stroke of skin, a pair of slightly protruding hipbones. I focus on his mouth, slightly opened, white teeth contrasting with his red lips. He’s beautiful, and I feel myself tumbling down, giving in to his touch. I close my eyes and focus on the feeling of him, and then I’m drowning, my body shuddering as I let myself submerge completely.

***~***

***~***

He’s watching me.

I know he is, even though I can’t see him in the dark. I’m lying on my side, facing away from him, keeping my breathing deep and even. He’s lying still but his body is tense next to me. It has been for hours now. He’s struggling with his conscience, like he does every night. And like every night, I know, he’ll lose.

I hear the blanket rustle, and the mattress dips as he rolls over to my side. His breath ghosts over my skin, warm and coming in short little huffs. I have to concentrate on my breathing, my heartbeat speeding up as I feel him leaning over.

I want him. I want his hands in my hair, his fingers drawing patterns in the freckles on my back. Doesn’t he see how much I long for him? Whenever I comb my hand through my hair, I can see his jaw clench. Come here, I ask him silently with every movement of my fingers through my hair. I know he wants me, I need him to know, but he looks away, fists curled in his pockets.

But at night, the darkness surrounds us and erases us from the world. The night heightens my senses until the air is thrumming with his heartbeat, or maybe mine. His breathing fills my ears and swirls around me, until the world fades outside our room and this is all there is.

He’s watching me. And I’ve taken up touching him. A foot against his calf, my hands resting over his. He lies silent for a while, until he rolls over and his breathing gradually speeds up. His toes curl in the sheets, breathing ragged and restrained as he finally tenses, body strung taut with it. Then he lies silent for a while, and I listen until his breathing evens out. When I’m convinced it’s safe, I reach down, too, burning with the memory of his touch and the sound of him coming undone. It never takes long. 

Afterwards, I stare at the ceiling, wondering if I should feel guilty. I know he does, from the way he avoids my eyes the next morning. But I’ve wanted him for so long now. And the only way I can have him is at night. It surrounds us with silence and darkness, and gently hides our desires from the world.

Next to me, I feel him move. His breath is warm on my back. Desire uncurls and rolls through me like a wave, flaring hot under my skin. Stretching my legs, I mumble something incomprehensible and roll over to him. Acting like I’m deeply asleep, I stretch out my hand to let it rest just over his heart. And wait.

*Fin*


End file.
